"Secrets of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

CHAPTER 5

THE FOLLOWING morning found a large segment of Bath society at the Pump Room again. Those who were brave enough or sick enough were bathing in the King's Bath. Lady Murdoch was standing at the window, leaning heavily on Sarah's arm. She had been declaring for several days that she too would bathe if only she did not have to look so freakish to do so.

"You know, cousin," she said now, "I am not as slender as I used to be in my youth, and I really cannot see myself looking to advantage dressed in one of those jackets and petticoats of brown linen that all the ladies wear down there. And have you noticed how many of them fix handkerchiefs to their straw bonnets? I should be the laughingstock."

"It seems that the handkerchiefs are necessary for wiping their faces," Sarah said. "You can see even from here that the water is hot. The steam is constantly rising. Besides, ma'am, they are all sitting up to their necks in water. I do not see that you would be conspicuous. From here it is impossible to tell who is who."

"Do you think so?" Lady Murdoch asked dubiously. "But I would have to be helped into the water and out again, dear, and I should be in full view then.

"Perhaps you should try the Queen's Bath, ma'am," Sarah suggested. "It is far more private, I believe, and for ladies only."

"What?" Lady Murdoch cried. "And miss all the activity here? Besides, what is an old woman like me doing worrying about what people will say? I am long past the age of vanity." She laughed loudly, turning a few heads. "Tomorrow, perhaps, dear. This morning I have promised to meet Bertha. Maybe I will just drink the waters today. They must be helping my digestion somewhat, don't you think?"

Sarah smiled and led her employer slowly to a chair at one end of the room before procuring for her a glass of the mineral waters. It was the same story every day. Today, though, she had really hoped that Lady Murdoch would choose to try the more private bath. Then the ordeal of the meeting with the other party would be at least postponed.

While she waited at Lady Murdoch's shoulder, though, it was not the duke and his group who first accosted them. Mr. John Staple came to pay his respects and had to be presented to Lady Murdoch. He appeared as thoroughly respectable as he had the previous evening, Sarah found. He must be younger than she, she was convinced. He was a fresh-faced young man with impeccable manners and a slight stammer when he tried to make conversation.

"Are you taking the waters, ma'am?" he asked Lady Murdoch. "M-my father came here to bathe last year and all through the w-winter his gout was not nearly so troublesome as usual."

"I merely have some slight digestive problems," Lady Murdoch said. "I just drink, you know. But I might try bathing sometime. I suffer from the rheumaticks." She laughed heartily. "It comes with age, young man."

Mr. Staple looked disconcerted for a moment. "I was reading in the Bath Chronicle yesterday," he said, "the advertisement for Scot's Pills. Did you see it, ma'am? They are now improved, you know. They are reputed to cure most maladies: the headache, giddiness, deafness, ulcers, gout, and rheumaticks, as well as numerous others. It is amazing what modern medicine can accomplish."

Lady Murdoch launched into a conversation on one of her favorite topics: her health. Sarah looked up to see Winston strolling toward them, smiling with pleasure. Physically he really did put all other men into the shade, she had to admit. His tall, muscular figure showed to great advantage in his skintight cream pantaloons and gold-tasseled Hessians, in his blue, close-fitting jacket and crisp white cravat and neckcloth. His blond hair was like a halo around his head. She marveled that such a handsome body should hold such an ugly spirit.

"Ah, Sarah," he said, taking her hand and bowing over it, "last night I would have said that green was most certainly your color. Now I have to admit that that particular shade of blue becomes you to perfection."

"Good morning, Win," she said coolly. "I did not know that you were in the habit of taking the waters."

"And neither am I," he said, "but how could I resist the pleasure of meeting you and Lady Murdoch again. Ma'am?" He bowed and smiled at Lady Murdoch, who had paused in her conversation with Mr. Staple.

Lady Cavendish and Lady Fanny had entered the Pump Room, Sarah saw during what must have been her hundredth glance in the direction of the entry. Lady Hannah and George were close behind. Lady Murdoch noticed them at the same moment.

"Yoo-hoo!" she yelled, raising her glass and nodding and smiling until she had attracted their attention.

Sarah's eyes met those of Cranwell across the room, and she looked down in some confusion. She could not stop herself from remembering her very stupid behavior of the evening before, when she had refused his perfectly civil offer to hand her into the carriage.

"Win," she said, turning to him and speaking quickly, "would you care to take me for a turn about the room?"

He smiled dazzlingly. "I could think of nothing more delightful," he said. "Let us only first pay our respects to the new arrivals, Sarah."

She had hoped to avoid the meeting. But of course it would have appeared ill-mannered in the extreme to move off at that moment. She smiled and curtsied to Lady Cavendish, nodded vaguely in the direction of the two girls and Cranwell. Winston was at his charming best.

"Ma'am," he said, turning to Lady Murdoch last, "may I borrow your cousin for a few minutes for a turn about the room?"

She nodded graciously. "Sarah does not need my permission to enjoy herself," she said. "I am always telling her to run along and find some amusement suited to her age. Old persons like me are not much company for young folk, you know."

"Well, Sarah," Winston said when they had moved away from the group, "and to what do I owe this unexpected preference? Are you avoiding Cranwell or choosing me?" He smiled down at her, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I merely felt like walking," she said. "Lady Murdoch is unable to walk very far, and I sometimes get tired of standing."

"I would hardly call this walking," Winston said. "This is the merest strolling, Sarah, and the room is deuced crowded. If you really wish to walk, I should be delighted to take you out to Beechen Cliff. Have you been there yet? There is a magnificent view of the city from the top, so I have heard."

Sarah smiled. "You know I would not do that, Win," she said.

He looked searchingly down at her. "There was a time when you would have come anywhere with me," he said. "I still treasure those memories. And I still cannot really understand why you will not allow us to recapture those times. It could be good, Sarah. We were good together. I have never been able to find anyone to take your place, you know."

"Win," she said, "you delude yourself. I thought you had finally accepted the fact that I am no longer your victim and never will be again."

"You can't blame me for trying," he said, grinning at her and covering her hand with his for a moment. "That Cranwell has a great deal to answer for. Everything was fine between us until you fancied yourself in love with him, or with respectability, or whatever the attraction was. I must confess that my self-esteem has never quite recovered from the indignity of your having preferred him to me. He is not even remarkably handsome, is he?"

"Not as handsome as you, Win," Sarah admitted. "There, you have had the compliment you were fishing for."

"No," he said, "but do you really find him attractive, Sarah?" He glanced the length of the room to where Cranwell was still standing close to Lady Murdoch's chair.

"It really does not matter whether I do or not," she said shortly. "But you must understand, Win, why I find it embarrassing to be forced into his presence like this. He could make things very uncomfortable for me here if he chose to do so. One word whispered in Bath spreads throughout the city in a mere few minutes. He could ruin my reputation. So could you, for that matter."

"Why would either of us want to do that?" he said. "You are really far too sensitive, Sarah. I always did tell you that. The man looks too haughty for his own good, though. Shall I flirt with his sister and see how he reacts?"

"No!" she said sharply. "For heaven's sake, Win, leave her alone. I would much prefer to see you go back to your cards. I am sure that is where your heart really belongs."

He grinned. "You know, Sarah," he said, "I do not believe I can resist the temptation. If she weren't such a pretty and vivacious little thing, I wouldn't think it such a famous notion, perhaps. But she is something out of the ordinary way, is she not?"

"No, Win," she said. "Please don't."

The words rang an echo in her ears. She had said those words to Winston many times, and always the pleadings seemed rather to urge him on than to make him comply. Sarah felt a terrible dread as their slow progress around the room took them nearer and nearer to their group again.

"One can really see the most extraordinary display of fashions in a walk around," he said gaily to the others as he approached, Sarah still on his arm. "I have two arms and one is entirely free. Lady Fanny, would you care to take it and join us in another turn around the room?"

Fanny blushed and smiled brightly, first at Winston and then at Sarah. "I would be delighted, sir," she said, taking the proffered arm and turning to her brother only as an afterthought. "May I, George?"

Cranwell bowed stiffly. "A good idea," he said. "Hannah and I will join you."

Sarah kept grimly to her place on Winston's left-hand side. She listened to the flow of charming compliments to his new companion and his humorous comments on the other strollers, which soon had Lady Fanny in peals of laughter. His eyes were bright and twinkling, Sarah noticed in one brief glance, and his smile at its most beguiling. And she was constantly aware of George and Lady Hannah walking behind them.

They were stopped before they reached the end of the room by Captain Penny, looking as dashing in his uniform as he had the evening before. He bowed to Fanny and asked her how she did. She introduced him to her present companions and to her brother and Hannah.

"Would you care to join us?" Winston asked after a few minutes of inconsequential chatter. "We are engaged in the exertion of circumnavigating the room, and we are, as you see, an uneven number. I have been fortunate enough until now to have a lady on each arm. But I shall condescend to relinquish Miss Fifield into your charge, Penny, and I shall amuse Lady Fanny.”

While the captain bowed politely and offered Sarah his arm, Fanny smiled brightly into Winston's laughing eyes and walked off with him. What was it about Winston, Sarah wondered, that seemed to enable him always to have his own way without any apparent exertion? It had always been so. He was in a very public place, of course, with two other couples of his group only a few paces behind him, but even so he was very obviously making the most of these few minutes of near-privacy to charm Lady Fanny into what might easily develop into an infatuation. He had always been irresistible to most females, she had noticed through the years, except herself. And even she, foolish girl, had been proud to be seen with him when she was much younger.

When they again came to that part of the room where Lady Murdoch and Lady Cavendish were both seated, it was to find that Mr. Staple had taken his leave, and Mr. Phelps and the Misses Seymour had joined them. The following few minutes were taken up with the several introductions that had to be made.

"Lady Fanny and I have conceived a famous notion for this afternoon," Winston said, including the whole group in his charming smile. "Why not take advantage of the summery weather, we have decided, take a drive out to Beechen Cliff, and then climb to the top? The view from there is one not to be missed, I have heard."

"Oh, do let's," Fanny said, her arm still resting on Winston's. "I do so feel like a brisk walk. Yesterday and this morning we have merely strolled."

"Bless me," Lady Murdoch said, "I do not believe I could climb even a molehill, Lord Laing." She laughed loudly. "But that need be no impediment to the outing. I have no wish to spoil the pleasures of you young people, who have so much energy to use up. I shall drive out there with you and merely sit in the carriage when you begin to climb. I am sure that by then I shall be quite glad of a quiet read or even a little sleep."

"There really will be no need of either," Lady Cavendish assured her. "I am not yet in my dotage, Adelaide, and I am sure I could keep up with the young people if I wished. But in the circumstances I shall stay in the carriage with you. We might even take a short stroll, you know. We do not have to go right to the top."

"A splendid idea," her friend said, beaming. "Of course, if you are not going to the top either, Bertha, there will be no close chaperonage for the young people. But I really do not think they need to be watched all the time. We shall observe the proprieties by pacing back and forth halfway up the hill."

Winston and Fanny exchanged triumphant smiles.

"That seems to be settled then," Cranwell said in a tone that defied interpretation. "Hannah, do you feel up to the exercise?"

"If you wish to go, your grace, and if Grandmama agrees," the girl replied dutifully.

"Splendid. Miss Seymour? Miss Stella? And Captain Penny? Phelps?"

Cranwell received a bow of acceptance from both gentlemen and a smiling nod from the ladies. Sarah noticed that her own approval was not solicited. Then, of course, she was not seen as a free agent. Where Lady Murdoch went, she would be expected to go too. No invitation was necessary.

She wished suddenly that she were free. She had no wish to continue this situation: George, his fiancee, his sister, Winston, and herself all in company together, Winston determined to flirt with Lady Fanny and create mischief.

"Miss Fifield," Mr. Phelps said, making her an elegant bow, "may one hope that you too will make one of the party?"

"I shall certainly come," she replied in some confusion. "But I shall not be climbing to the top, sir. I shall stay with Lady Murdoch to lend my arm when she walks."

"Nonsense, cousin!" that lady declared loudly. "You must accompany the young people. Sometimes, Sarah dear, you behave just as if you were an old maid already. If I need assistance, I shall lean on Bertha. She is strong. There was a time, you know, when both of us would have tripped to the top of any hill you could name and not even have been out of breath when we arrived."

Lady Cavendish nodded and smiled graciously at Sarah. "Yes, Miss Fifield, you really must run along," she said. "It does not do Adelaide good to have someone catering to her every wish, you know. She likes to play the invalid if she has a sympathetic audience. She always did."

"Well," Lady Murdoch said, looking as if she were not quite sure whether to be offended or to bellow with laughter. She finally did the latter.

"I am so glad that you will be coming too, Miss Fifield," Lady Fanny said, smiling brightly at her. She carefully avoided meeting her brother's eyes.

The outing had been Winston's suggestion, but it was Cranwell who was left to make the arrangements. Before the various members of the group went their separate ways to breakfast, he had agreed to order the carriages to pick up the ladies at their various lodging places. The Misses Seymour were to share a hired carriage with Lady Murdoch and Sarah. Lady Cavendish and her two charges were to ride in Cranwell's own carriage. The gentlemen were to ride.

Sarah was furious. Winston knew that she wished to stay as far away from the Duke of Cranwell as possible. Indeed, he knew that it was positively dangerous for her to be much in his presence, especially with Winston himself present too. He knew that she did not covet his own company and that he could only cause her further embarrassment and pain by beginning a flirtation with George's sister. Yet he had almost single-handedly ensured that all her wishes were ignored. Why did he enjoy confounding her? To deliberately set out to make her miserable?

All through a short shopping trip to Cheap Street after breakfast she fumed.

Perhaps the only time Winston had not caused her pain was unconscious on his part. She had dreaded his return the summer after he had ravished her, the summer after she had fallen in love with the Duke of Cranwell. But he had not come. He had acquired a taste for more lively social activities and pursued his pleasure in Brighton and Bath. He had returned home for only a few days before beginning his tour of Europe and she had managed to escape his attentions.

Sarah shook herself free of her thoughts when Lady Murdoch suggested that they make their way to Mr. Gill the pastry cook's for a jelly or a tart.

"I really think, cousin, that as well as healing my digestive problems, the waters give me an appetite," she said. "We had breakfast less than two hours ago and I am quite famished already."

Sarah thought of the beefsteak, liver, and kidneys that had formed part of Lady Murdoch's breakfast and turned in the direction of Mr. Gill's.

The Duke of Cranwell did his part to organize the carriage ride and walk for the afternoon. They were to leave immediately after luncheon, but that meal was eaten so late in Bath that they would be fortunate to make a start before half-past three. He found it difficult to adjust to the hours of the city. He was accustomed to rising and breakfasting early and to having luncheon at noon.

He had declined meeting the ladies again after breakfast. They planned a shopping trip. Fanny had declared emphatically that she was already tired of wearing the bonnets she had brought with her and intended to find a milliner's shop that sold something more fashionable. He had given his permission and was prepared to pay the bills, but he refused to punish himself further by accompanying her.

He spent the time instead wandering alone. His steps inevitably led him to the Abbey. He stood in the Pump Yard for many minutes looking up at it, totally oblivious of the fashionable crowd that strolled by. It amazed him that the Abbey could be at the heart of all activity in the city, a mere stone's throw from the Pump Room, in fact, and yet be almost ignored by the people who crowded past it. Most seemed completely unaware of it. His eyes roamed over the intricately carved stonework, the Gothic doors with their pointed arches. He decided to go inside.

There too, surrounded by cold silence, he marveled at the magnificence around him. The church was surprisingly light, its Gothic windows huge. It amazed him how the stonemasons of a previous age could have known how to construct the building in such a way that the massive weight of the walls and roof did not collapse around the large windows. He gazed in wonder at the stained-glass windows, each telling its own intricate story, each gloriously lit by the sun outside.

He sat down, feeling very small and insignificant. Yet for the first time since leaving home he felt at ease, happy almost. He would sit here until he felt thoroughly calm again and able to cope with the day ahead. He felt very much out of control. He did not like the turn affairs had taken. Yet there seemed almost nothing he could do to put matters right. Although he was Hannah's intended husband and Fanny's guardian, all of them were basically Lady Cavendish's guests during their stay in Bath, even himself. She had suggested the visit and he felt obliged to fall in with whatever activities she favored. He did not feel that he could assert his will and dictate to her where they went and-more important-with whom they would associate.

There was only one thing he could do to change the situation and that was to talk to Lady Cavendish and explain matters to her. Surely then she would break this association with her old friend. But he could not do so. He could not be sure that the information would remain confidential. And despite all, he found that he could not knowingly expose Sarah again to public censure and even rejection. She would have to leave Bath and would never again be able to show herself in any public setting. He could not do that to her.

There was no reason why he should feel that way, of course. She should not be there. She should have imposed such restrictions on her own behavior. And certainly it was not right that she should force herself on such an unsuspecting innocent as Hannah. He had every right to force her into more decorous behavior, he more than anyone. He was the one she had most hurt. But he could not do so. Revenge had seemed sweet to him once, but had brought no real satisfaction. It held out no real lures for him now. He had loved her once. And though that love had died a cruel death a long time before, he could still remember. And memory held him inactive.

He had almost invited himself to stay with the Saxton a year after he met Sarah. They had asked him during the spring when he met them in London, but he was almost sure that they had not expected him to accept. But he went just in order to see her again. Perhaps when he saw her, he thought, he would find that he had been loving a dream all those months. He rode over to her uncle's house to call on her the day after his arrival.

At first he thought that he should not have come. She seemed not at all delighted to see him. He spent a whole hour conversing with her uncle and aunt without once hearing her voice. And the following day, when he returned and asked her aunt if he might be permitted to walk in the park with her niece, Sarah almost visibly cringed away from him into the large wing chair in which she sat, and said that she thought it would rain. Her aunt almost had to force her to fetch a shawl and a bonnet.

But he remembered how long it had taken the year before to break through her reserve, and he persisted. And on the third such walk he finally drew some response from her. He was describing a performance of The Merchant of Venice he had seen in London the previous spring, with Edmund Kean as Shylock.

"It must be wonderful actually to see a play performed on the stage," she said, looking up at him for a moment with such a look of bright-eyed yearning on her face that he clasped his hands behind his back and resisted the urge to take her face between his hands and promise her that he would spend the rest of his days showering her with the good things of life.

Gradually she warmed to him again, though for a while longer he carried the burden of their conversations. Yet, although he was normally a quiet man, he did not mind talking to her. She was so obviously interested, and the questions she asked and the comments she made showed that she did have the knowledge to understand what he talked about. She came alive during those conversations, and her beauty became vibrant and dazzling. They walked out almost every afternoon for more than a week, though she would never go beyond sight of the house. They always walked side by side, not touching. She would never accept the offer of his arm.

It was on the tenth day after his arrival that he talked with her uncle before taking her out. There was no objection to his paying his addresses to Sarah. Viscount Laing explained that she had no personal fortune. There was no dowry, though her uncle had decided that he would make a money settlement on her either on her marriage or on his death. No one else knew of this.

They were standing leaning on a fence watching a group of sheep grazing in a meadow when he spoke.

"Miss Bowen," he said, "I think I must have made my intentions clear by calling on you every day for more than a week now. I would be greatly honored if you will consent to be my wife."

Her reaction took him completely by surprise. She jerked around to face him, her cheeks suffused with color. "No," she said in a voice that shook with some emotion that sounded very like fear. "Do not say such things. Please don't."

"Have I taken you by surprise?" he asked gently. "I am sorry. We have built a friendship in the last few days to match that we shared last year. I thought that perhaps you were not indifferent to me."

She was shaking her head from side to side. "No," she said. "No, you must not say these things. You cannot wish to m-marry me."

"But I do," he said. "I love you."

She gazed with wide, dismayed eyes into his before turning away with a moan and stumbling along the fence line.

"Miss Bowen," he said, alarmed and not a little hurt. He followed her and caught eventually at her arm. "Please, don't upset yourself. If I have spoken out of turn, I am sorry. Truly. If you have no feeling for me, no wish to receive my addresses, I shall say no more. If my company is abhorrent to you, I shall leave immediately and trouble you no more. But please, don't upset yourself."

She snatched away her arm but stood still again, her face in her hands. "I cannot," she said. "I cannot marry you, your grace. I am sensible of the great honor you have done me, but I cannot." Her voice was low, miserable.

"I see," he said quietly. He intended to turn away and leave her there, but the unhappiness in her voice held him. "Are your feelings engaged elsewhere?"

"No!" she said vehemently, pulling her hands away from her face and looking up at him with wide eyes. And then, more quietly, "No, there is no one else."

"Have you no affection for me?" he asked hesitantly. "Have my visits in the last days been unwelcome?"

He watched the tears well into her eyes as she shook her head slowly.

"What is it, then?" he asked, reaching out a hand to brush away the one tear that had spilled down over her cheek. "Is it your brother?" He glanced sympathetically at her black dress. "Have I spoken too soon? Should I have waited? You loved him dearly, did you not?"

She pulled back' slightly from his hand, but she continued to look at him with those unhappy eyes. 'I have lived for your visits," she whispered. She did not mention her dead brother.

He frowned in incomprehension.

"You must go away," she said.

But he sensed her pain. "What is it?" he asked.

"I do love you," she said. "Oh, I do love you."

"But you will send me away?"

She put her hands over her face again and shook her head. He put his own hand loosely around one of her wrists and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. It was the first touch of his that she had not resisted. And a few moments later she was within the loose circle of his arms, her head on his shoulder.

"Do you truly wish to marry me?" she asked finally, raising her head and looking into his face. "I mean really and truly?" She sounded almost as if she were hoping that he would say no.

He smiled. "It is the dearest wish of my heart," he said.

"Then marry me," she said fiercely. "But soon. I do not care that I am in mourning. Oh, please, marry me soon and take me away from here."

He had been surprised. She spoke almost as if her aunt and uncle were tyrants whom she could not wait to escape. Yet he thought them quite unusually fond of her.

"That is my wish," he said. "I have no interest in an elaborate wedding. I want you in my home and in my arms."

"Do you?" she asked him passionately. "Oh, do you truly?"

"I also want to kiss you at this very moment," he said with a smile. He was feeling very exultant, very happy. "May I, Sarah?"

The fear was back in her eyes, but she lifted her chin, inviting his kiss. It was very sweet. He tried to show her the depth of his love without frightening her with the passion he was controlling. Instead of catching her to him and kissing her deeply as he wanted to do, he held her gently and kissed her softly on the lips. Rigid and shrinking as she was at first, she finally relaxed against him and put her arms around his neck. Her lips softened beneath his own. And when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, he saw that they were shining with tears and with love.

Cranwell was looking unseeingly ahead to the altar of Bath Abbey. He had thought it was love. And was he to believe now that it had all been artifice, an elaborate trick to intrigue him and lure him into marrying her? That was the interpretation of events he had accepted during those months of blinding hurt four years before. And he had never had reason to think back and reassess his judgment. He would never know, perhaps. She had always been something of an enigma to him and there was no point now in trying to understand what motivated Sarah Fifield.

"By Jove, it is Cranwell!" a hushed voice behind him said. "How are you, my old friend? I ain't interrupting anything, am I? Prayers or anything?"

"Josh!" Cranwell said, jumping to his feet and clasping a tall, thin young man by the hand. "Of all the good fortune. I have been here almost two days and not clapped eyes on a familiar face yet." Except Sarah's, he thought with a jolt.

"Hardly surprising," the Honorable Joshua Stonewall said with a grin. "You must be quite a hermit, Cran. Ain't seen you since Greece. Was it five years ago? Or longer? I follow the crowds around every Season, but rumor has it that you stay at Montagu Hall all year round and actually work on your farms., You always were something of an eccentric, but really, there are limits, old fellow. You ain't grown since five years ago, eh?" He grinned.

Cranwell smiled back. "And you haven't gained an, ounce in that time, either, Josh. Your brow is wider, though. "

His friend passed a hand ruefully over his receding hairline. Wiry dark curls stood like a tarnished halo around the back of his head. "It ain't fair that wigs are out of fashion, is it?" he said cheerfully. "I'll be hard put to it to find a female willing to shackle herself to this bare dome. Should have married years ago when I had a full crop."

"Let's go and find the coffeehouse on North Parade," Cranwell said. "We can reminisce about Oxford days, and you can tell me what you have been doing since. Apart from traveling, of course. Perhaps you would care to join a party of my acquaintances this afternoon on a ride out to Beechen Cliff and a climb to the top. City dogs like you usually need the exercise."